Ghost from the Past
by Mizuni-no-neko
Summary: In 1991, mere months before the fall of the Soviet Union, Russia and America are contemplating their share night of passion. But when they're thrust into the present day, invisible except to eachother, how will they react to their status as lovers?


Oddly enough, I think this may be the first lemon I've posted here. Which means it's the first lemon I've written for RusAme that wasn't an RP :OOO I hope I didn't fuck it up *hides*

I used a random title generator to give me ideas for a title and one of the ones I got was:

The Fall of Filthy Cheese-Eating Surrender Monkeys

No joke, it made me lol so hard.

Anyway, enjoy!

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_1991_

Soviet Russia had been spending a normal evening at home, drinking his vodka by the warmth of the firelight while thinking of new way to torment dear Amerika. He smirked at the thought, swirling the clear fluid around in its bottle. If there was anything that could make him feel better in such dark times, it was the thought that somewhere out there that idiot was cursing his existance for making his life hell.

Oh yes, he loved to torture the pathetic blonde. So greedy, so opulent. He made Soviet Russia's gut twist with a feeling he couldn't quite describe. _It was sickness, it had to be sickness, right?_ Something that made him want to smash the American's face in at the same time he wanted to-

But no, he wouldn't think of the other things he wanted to do to the brat. He wouldn't think of how he wanted that toned, lithe body he'd felt against his during their many fights spread out on his bad, wanton and begging for him. He wouldn't think about those fiery blue eyes filled with lust instead of hate. He wouldn't even consider how mesmerizing the thought of his name slipping off of those deliciously pink lips was. Because to acknowledge those wants was to acknowledge that what he felt for the American wasn't quite the intense hatred he liked others to think it was.

He sighed, scowling at the bottle of vodka like the entire situation was its fault. It wasn't, of course, he was rarely drunk enough to blame some of the more rash desicions he had made on the booze. In fact, the only time alcohol had ever influenced his conduct around America was the one glorious night when America had been just as drunk as he was, body just as hot, just as ready as Russia himself. A night he only remembered in flashes.

_America moaning his human name, back arching and face flushed so wonderfully._

Russia shifted as the memories were drudged up, crossing his legs. There was no one in the room to hide his growing erection from but himself, but maybe it was himself he was trying to hide it from in the end.

Blue eyes glinting mischeivously up at him as a pink tongue lapped at the head of his cock like a whoreish kitten.

Russia coughed and tried to return to the book he had been reading, but his eyes couldn't focus on the letters. He darted his tongue out to lick dry lips as the flashes kept coming back, only half remembered through the haze of drunkeness.

_He had never believed that the younger nation could look this beautiful. Legs spread, a flush covering his face and spreading down his chest, glasses askew, lips parted, looking up at him like he was the only person in the world that mattered. The only thing missing from the erotic picture was splashes of cum across those surprisingly soft lips and his length buried deep inside him._

That was one of the best ones, in his opinion. Not only was it the clearest mental image he had, but it struck a chord somewhere in him that wasn't just sexual. It made him feel something, though he wasn't quite sure what. It had been the look in the other's eyes. He was so accustomed to finding hate there, maybe the lack of the accustomed emotion had thrown him off-kilter?

_America arching up into him, lean frame pressed tightly against him as he keened the older nation's name and came between them. He was radiant in his pleasure; but Russia pushed the thought out of his mind as he, too, came undone._

That was his second favorite memory of the night. He'd found himself cumming to the image of Alfred's pleasured face many a lonely night. Not as often as to the memory of him spread out and wanting, wanting _him_. But often enough.

He swallowed a thick gulp of vodka and stared down at the growing buldge in his pants. It would not take care of itself, but neither would he. It would go down in time, he assured himself. He just needed to concentrate on something besides those blue, blue eyes begging him for more.

Just as he picked the book back up, shoving those kinds of thought from his head, the room swirled around him in a mix of light and shadow. He tried to hold onto something or close his eyes, anything to stop the room from spinning. But nothing worked.

He disappeared from the room, leaving no trace of him ever having been there beside the discarded bottle of vodka and an overturned book.

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America was similarly occupied in his own home with a bottle of whiskey, the amber liquid sliding down his throat with a pleasant burn that let him know it was working. It was only a matter of time now before he was drunk enough to either forget that night three months ago when he'd snapped and practically begged Russia to take him.

_They stumbled backwards into the hotel room. He was already wrapped around Russia, rutting up against him like a whore. He'd wanted him so badly for so long and finally he had an excuse._

He'd acted like some fucking slut desperate for anything from anyone! What had come over him? What had he been thinking! There was no way he could have gotten away with that if he wasn't drunk. And even now he was sure Russia suspected something. He had trouble hiding what he was thinking at the best of times, when he was drunk and in the throes of passion who knew what Russia had seen in his eyes, his expressions. At least he hadn't slipped up and said anything incriminating.

_"God Ivan yes, please! Harder!" he begged as the larger nation thrust into him, the pleasure mounting. His nails, short and jagged from biting them off, raked down Russia's back. He hoped he drew blood. Not only because it would hurt the bastard, but he would have to remember this, remember him._

It wasn't that Russia had been the only option and he'd been desperate. Quite the opposite, in fact. England had been hanging onto him half the night and France was always ready for a quick go with anything that had a warm hole. But they weren't the one he wanted. There was only one person at the party he wanted and he was the only person he couldn't have. Or, he could have him. But he would run the risk of waking up with his throat slit or worse: alone.

_He woke up the next morning to a splitting headache and a cold, empty bed. He looked over to the side of the bed where Russia had slept after they'd finished. He hadn't really expected him to be here when he woke up, but that hadn't stopped him hoping. He ran his hand over the cold indentation where his body had been and sighed, rolling into the space and burying his face in the sheets that still smelled like him. He didn't want to get up and face another day alone just yet. He would rest here for just a little while longer._

How could he have been such a fool to think that it was anything other than drunken sex between enemies? Russia didn't feel anything for him. He was lucky he was good looking enough to even entice the larger nation into bed. No matter how pretty he was he couldn't get Russia to love him. It just wasn't going to happen. America wasn't going to get his Hollywood ending.

_America and Russia as they had been before, laughing and talking together beneathe the stars. This was before the revolution, before communism, before their friendship had been damaged beyond repair. When America was still so very young and Russia had seemed to be perfect to him, for him. He'd had such a crush on the older nation. That's why it hurt so much when he shunned democracy for that horrible socialist system he insisted was so much better. It was like he'd shunned him and his love and it broke his heart to this day._

America took a large gulp of the fiery amber liquid he was slowly but surely drowning his sorrows in. He knew he wouldn't find the answer to his problems at the bottom of a bottle, but it wouldn't hurt to look. And there were so many worse things in the world than drinking. Throwing nuclear weapons at the guy he liked to get his attention, for instance. That would be a bad idea. Calling him up when he was drunk was probably a bad idea too, huh? It sounded fun, but he'd probably end up bawling and begging him to come back and be his friend again.

He wanted to go to bed and forget that any of this had ever happened. He would go to bed and dream of something nice like sunflowers. Russia liked sunflowers, right? Maybe if he was a sunflower Russia would like him. But no, Russia would probably think he was the most ugliest sunflower and refuse to be a sunflower democracy and be completely oblivious to his sunflower love and break his poor little sunflower heart.

America was on the verge of inebriated tears now and he tried to get up to get something to wipe away the evidence of his weakness. But the room was spinning and he felt a wrenching sensation in his gut. Faster and faster the room spun, and now Alfred could barel see. He cried out for someone, anyone. But the cry was swallowed up as he disappeared from the room without a trace, the whiskey in his glass still reflecting the light coming from his end table lamp.

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_Present Day_

Alfred looked up from where his head had been resting on his boyfriend's shoulder, looking around with a puzzled expression on his face. He could have swoarn he heard something, but there was no one there but him and Ivan. He shrugged it off and laid his head back down on Ivan's shoulder, watching the movie. They'd decided on a horror film that night. Partially because Alfred liked scary movies, partially because Ivan found it hilarious when the superpower would jump into his lap screaming, but mostly because it almost gaurunteed sex. Alfred would watch the movie, get scared out of his wits, climb into Ivan's lap, they'd start making out, and by the time the last dumb teenager was killed he was being pounded into the couch.

The movie had just started, so it would be awhile before it came to that, but the feeling that they were being watched wouldn't go away and it was just accelerating the fear process and kicking it into overdrive. He was already burrowing closer to the larger nation, looking over his shoulder every couple of seconds. If he didn't know better, he'd say the house was haunted or something.

Ivan wrapped an arm around Alfred's waist, looking over at the blonde. Usually he lasted a bit longer than this before becoming completely terrified. So what was wrong? He pulled him into his lap and settled him there, kissing the junction between his neck and shoulders. "Alfred, dorogoy, what is wrong?" He asked.

"I just...I feel like someone is watching us." He said, looking over his shoulder again. "And not just anyone. It feels like when you would glare at me during the Cold War. It's weird, because you're right here and you'r enot glaring at me." He said, glowering into a corner where he could swear he could almost make out a shape.

Little did he know that Soviet Russia and America from 1991 had somehow been transported into the room, to the very corner at which he was glaring, completely invisible to the other occupants of the room. Soviet Russia looked on in disgust as his future self cuddled with Alfred, not admitting even to himself how the sight tugged at his hear strings. He was about to turn to America to remark about how disgusting it was when Ivan spoke again.

"Do not worry, solnushka. I will never look at you that way again, I promise." He said softly, hooking a finger under Alfred's chin and pulling him into a gentle kiss. Alfred responded immediately, pressing deeper into the kiss and wrapping himself around his lover. The movie was forgotten as Ivan laid Alfred back on the couch, kissing down his neck as he slipped the bomber jacket off of his shoulders and slid his hands under his shirt, slowly pushing it up and off as the responsive young nation mewled and arched up into the touch.

"I love you." He told him as he kissed a path down his chest. "I did not know it then, but I always have." He swirled a tongue around one ducky nipple before taking it between his teeth and biting down softly, smirking as he was rewarded with a low moan. "And nothing is going to change that." He pulled back, blowing across the nipple and moving his hand down the planes of Alfred's stomach to unbutton and unzip his pants. He pulled the jeans down off of his lover's hips and slipped his hand into his boxers, squeezing his length and pumping languidly.

Alfred was a writhing mess by the time he was completely undressed. He could feel the arousal burning through him like magma and he wanted more. But this wasn't just about him and he had to touch Ivan. He felt that if he didn't he'd go completely insane. "Take off that damn coat." He growled as he kicked his jeans and boxers the rest of the way off.

He reached for the coat, which Ivan hadn't been able to get off in the short time he'd allotted him. He unbuttoned it and reached in, hands roaming over Ivan's chest over his shirt. He could feel the muscle there through the fabric and he wanted more. He wanted to feel the brush of skin on skin as they tangled themslves up and made love.

Ivan shrugged the coat off and pulled back to remove his shirt. As soon as it was off Alfred's hands were back. Exploring, touching, and pinching. Ivan gathered his younger love up in his arms and kissed him, bressing their bare chests together and grinding a clothed thigh against Alfred's erection.

Alfred broke the kiss with a gasp, throwing his head back and letting Ivan's name fall from his lips as he bucked into the thigh. He was a writhing, panting mess; But it wasn't enough, not nearly enough. He needed Ivan inside of him and he needed it now before he exploded. "Please, baby, no more teasing." He begged breathlessly, looking up with those breathtaking baby blues clouded with lust for _him_. It was all for him. The lust, the wantoness, the begging. And he would take what was his gladly so long as Alfred was willing to give it.

Ivan reached over to grab the lube from the end table, but Alfred was already at work slicking his cock with spit. He cursed under his breath as Alfred took his whole length in, sucking greedily and laving at it with his tongue. He tangled his fingers in his boyfriend's hair as he worked, pulling him back when it was wet enough. Alfred looked up at him from where he was on his hands and knees, begging him to just do it already.

"C'mon, babe. I'm still ready to go from earlier, please don't make me wait any longer." He whimpered as he lay back and spread his legs for the taller man. Ivan loved when Alfred would become submissive like this. Usually it occured after the scary parts in a movie, though, not before. He chuckled and slid a hand up Alfred's leg as he took his position, pressing into Alfred slowly. Apparently it wasn't enough for the impatient superpower, who bucked up onto him and impaled himself on the Russian's length eagerly.

Grunts, moans, and cries filled the air of the room as the temperature rose. Slick skin sliding over slick skin, bodies a tangle of arms and legs, breath comingling in the air between them as they soared to new heights together before the waves broke and they floated down into eachother's arms, panting and spent. Ivan flipped them so that Alfred was resting on top of him, ear to his chest so he could hear the frantic beating of his heart against his ribcage, and tracing circles on his bare chest.

"You know the worst part about getting that look from you for all those years?" He piped up suddenly after long moments of silently basking in the afterglow. "That whole time I was so desperately in love with you and all you ever did was glare at me. At first, during the war, it was bearable. But then everything fell to shit and we started fighting and the whole time all I wanted was this, you." He said quietly, almost a whisper, as he buried his face in his lover's chest.

"I was a fool not to notice, Alfred. I was a fool to not know that the whole time I wanted the same thing. This right here I would not give up for the whole world. Now that I have you, we are never going back to the way we were before. I promise." He held the younger nation close as they both drifted off.

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Meanwhile, Russia and America had been watching the whole exchange with wide, disbelieving eyes. Russia turned to America, seeing him as if for the first time. If he had been beautiful before, it couldn't compare to the way he looked now. His face was flushed in embarassment and the look in those achingly blue eyes was nothing short of hope. Hope that this was real and not just a drunken dream and what he was seeing was really his future. America really wanted this, didn't he? This love that their future selves seemed to share.

"America...do you really feel that way?" He asked, voice soft with awe. America turned toward him, face going slack with shock. He'd been caught, what to do! He began to stammer, looking anywhere but at Russia. He didn't want to admit that what those two had was exactly what he wanted. What he'd wanted since almost the first time he met Russia when he was a young colony. He'd always loved him, he'd just never had the courage to say it.

"What do you...That is...I mean...-" But he was cut off as Russia swept him into his arms, kissing him hard and hot. The kiss stole his breath away, making his head spin and heart swell. This, this is what he wanted. This moment, clinging to Russia like a bit of driftwood in a storm. It was everything he wanted and more. And he knew from what they had just seen that this was just the beginning. They may fight, they may threaten eachother. But it was so obvious that through it all they were in love.

The room began to spin again, light and shadow blending together in a blur as they were transported back to their own time. They landed in America's bedroom, whiskey still sitting innocently on the bedside table as they fell back into the bed. They were tangled together, fully clothed, but they could care less. It wasn't about the sex right now, the sex could wait. This was their time to explore the chaste kisses and gentle touches they'd foregone the last time. This was their chance to see how the more innocent aspects of love would work for them. And, truth be told, neither of them could truthfully say they didn't enjoy it.

"What do you say?" America asked, placing a sweet, soft kiss on Russia's lips. As he pulled back Russia chased his lips, kissing him again. "Come on, stop, I'm serious!" He giggled, returning the kiss despite himself. "What do you think? You wanna try this?" He asked, gazing up into violet eyes. Russia gazed back, getting so lost in those eyes he knew so well and yet couldn't figure out, and nodded.

"I want to try. It will be hard, but I want to try with you." He leaned in, lips ghosting over America's as he whispered, "I love you."

Originally it was going to be either two simultaneous sex scenes or one after the other, but somehow the end seen morphed into fluff. I dunno, it just didn't seem right for them to jump right to sex, you know? Like, they were trying to get used to being in love first or something ;u; I think sex would have cheapened the experience considering their first time was when they were drunk and thought they hated eachother


End file.
